Growing Up in Queens

I was born in the 1950’ s and came of age during the social upheaval of the ‘60’s. My generation practiced ducking under desks during a nuclear standoff and cheered for our side in a space race when our country fought a Cold War. We grieved the assassination of a young president from Camelot, and all this played out on the television, which now occupied a prominent position in our living rooms.  

Amid this backdrop, I grew up in Queens Village, a quiet town in Queens, New York. It was our parents’ dream to live away from the inner-city apartments of their immigrant parents. And the GI bill made home ownership an attainable goal. Our house had a backyard, a front porch and a single car garage. Our moms stayed home with us while our dads went to work.

My friends had last names that reflected their second-generation ethnic roots such as Cappola, Cappetta, McKeon, McCaffrey, Pfeifer, and Lieberman. We lived within the boundaries of a Catholic Church which established our identity.  “What parish you from?” was the quickest slang to determine exactly where we lived. 

Children understood certain universal truths.  No cutting across lawns, no talking back to adults, and no amount of begging would help if a neighbor caught us up to no good. We prayed to every member of the Holy Family that our parents did not get wind of our transgressions.  News traveled fast back then. Walking in our front door, we knew by the expression on everyone’s faces if we were in hot water. We could be grounded or banished to our room until our parents determined we had sufficiently atoned for our sins. Every neighbor knew we were in the doghouse too. 

We found creative ways to amuse ourselves.  One popular option was putting on a backyard show, our own Ed Sullivan variety hour.  We had a baton twirler, a hula hooper, and little Timmy McCaffrey on his harmonica, playing, “Home on the Range.”  We fashioned ourselves as girl groups popular at the time, performing songs by the Shirelles and the Supremes. We had choreography too. The year I played George, and we dressed up and performed as the Beatles was a sellout. Demand was so high, we had to schedule a second show when we ran out of lawn chairs and backyard space.

Another way we spent time was riding our bicycles up and down the block. Sometimes we rode with only one hand on the handlebars, while others were brave and coordinated enough to pedal hands free. Baseball cards flicked around the spokes of our bicycle tires with the likes of Mickey Mantle, Roger Maris, and Whitey Ford, the New York Yankee heroes of the time.  Zooming up and down the block, we were blissfully unaware of the future value of the Topps trading cards spinning beneath our feet

The summer my father replaced the wooden detached garage with a new brick one, our backyard became construction central. The main attraction was the gigantic cement mixer that arrived to pour the foundation and the dump trucks that pulled up daily to haul in needed materials.  Boys on the block came early, jockeying for a good seat along the driveway to watch the proceedings. About that time, word got out that my dad was handy. Not just handy, but an artisan.  If he couldn’t fix it, he would rebuild it. His Saturday mornings were spent like a doctor, his toolkit in hand, making the rounds for repairs. Meanwhile, my mother seethed that her “honey do’” list grew ever longer.

We traveled on a bus and subway to Manhattan, which took less than an hour. Twice a year, at Christmas and at Easter, my family dressed in their finest and headed into the city for the biggest extravaganza of all, the holiday movie and the Rockettes Spectacular Show at Radio City Music Hall. As a child, the Art Deco design, the grand staircase, and the beauty of the theater were impressive and magical. Etched in my forever and cherished memories is watching Babes in Toyland followed by the Rockettes and their rendition of The March of the Wooden Soldiers.

By the time I finished 8th grade, the boundaries of my childhood world grew immensely. I took a city bus to high school and my friends and activities went beyond my neighborhood   My parish schoolmates attended public and parochial high schools throughout Brooklyn and Queens. The hometown block was never quite the same.

I think back to those days, and I am grateful for the lessons I learned early on in life. My neighborhood provided stability as well as a foundation for good citizenship. As children, we learned to respect and get along with others, and we understood that our actions had consequences. Recalling the innocence and adventures of my youth never fails to bring a smile to my face.

What are your favorite memories from growing up? 

Bit by bit…that’s all she wrote

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